One of the first things many people do when someone important – or a celebrity who they might vaguely be aware of – passes, is to go onto social media and express their condolences.
Some can do silly things; others miss the point entirely.
When I read the news about Antony Bourdain this lunchtime, I had tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat; not just because I loved the guy’s writing, documentaries and food, but because it’s another example of the darkness into which depression and mental health issues (some might add addiction) can enter us into.
Rather than speculate on the circumstances around his far-too-early departure from our lives, I wanted to do something a bit more personal than a tweet or status update, and actually celebrate the man; raise awareness of his importance… of why I admired him so much.
You may well be only vaguely – or even not at all – aware of who I’m talking about; if so, here’s the table in Hanoi where he ate a couple of years ago with Barack Obama:
Yes, the former American President was probably the bigger draw (and reason for this see-through time capsule) but the fact that Barack had agreed to meet and eat with him, I think, highlights how influential Tony was. Many chefs and celebrities have shared their grief, and acknowledgement of his greatness.
I am neither, but want to share with you why my heart is so heavy this evening.
It all started in 2005, when I’d just begun teaching. In the Observer one hangover-free Sunday, I read an interview with this fascinating sounding guy from America who’d written a book – an expose, if you like – of his time in the kitchens of New York. That he’d dallied with drink and drugs along the way made him all the more interesting, so I went and bought his autobiographies and delved in with intrigue.
Reading the first chapter of ‘Kitchen Confidential’ in which the chef describes in delicious detail his first taste of oysters in France one summer – when I, myself, had just had a similar experience – I was instantly hooked and passed on his book to a fellow wannabe chef. I’ve never had it back, but it doesn’t matter… it’s fair to say the book affected me forever.
His second tome, a document of his food travels of the world, was arguably more important for him as it introduced the notion of food travel which would open up a series of series he made about eating his way around the world: places I’d never go to, but felt I knew, thanks to his dry humour, appreciation of the everyday and New York drawl describing every barmy encounter.
When I first got Sky TV a few years later, that was the first programme I remember searching for; the first thing I remember really enjoying.
NO… RESERVATIONS.
The night he got drunk waiting for a Russian Fish Pie; the drinking Guinness and whisky chasers in an Irish Bar off 5th Avenue; the Full English with Fergus Henderson… these memories are vivid, but may be slightly inaccurate, however it doesn’t matter because they made me excited to cook.
And to travel.
Buying his first cook book even brought with it mixed experiences – I was sick one night after cooking the lapin aux olives, and don’t remember making too much else out of it (but will do from now on) – but as I read more about the culinary world, and realised more and more just how admired he was, I decided I just had to experience his cooking for myself.
I don’t think he was cooking the night we went to Les Halles Brasserie, Nassau Street, New York, December 26, 2009. He certainly didn’t cook my meal, because it was steak tartare and frites… but it was the best steak tartare I’ve ever tasted and in the most wonderful bistro-esque surroundings, with a Ribenary Beaujolais and the tastiest bread and butter going, plus mirrored walls and plush banquettes which took us from the post-proposal dreamland we were in, to 1950s Paris and Le Charme Discret de la Bourgeoisie.
Fast forward a couple of years, and we were married.
We travelled to Nice and one of the highlights of our visit to Cannes was a billboard advertisement featuring Bourdain and his new TV programme, ‘The Taste’. I watched every episode when it aired in Britain, albeit to mixed reviews, and his straightforward views seemed to sit better with his travel documentary style rather than the food talent show, meaning his new project of ‘The Layover’ which advised how best to spend a weekend in various cities.
That my Sky planner – and my Netflix watchlist – still have several hours of Bourdain programmes on them – ‘Parts Unknown’, especially – which show that I never got bored of him and his sweary articularcy – but the sadness at today’s news means I am at a crossroads of whether or not to delete it all because everything was beautiful and nothing hurt but I don’t know how I’ll feel, watching them all again.
In more recent years, his Instagram feed was full of exotic experiences so I’m glad at least that his 61 years allowed him to see (and eat) the world. He also impressed me as a father of a young girl like myself, and as a passionate and proud supporter of his girlfriend, Asia Argento, who had become embroiled in the Hollywood scandals surrounding certain producers and movements.
I get the impression he wouldn’t have wanted me to be crying, writing this; I don’t even know why I am.
He’d much prefer to know that we raised a glass to him during a family tea – I had a pint of Guinness and think he would have liked it – and now plan a glass of Languedoc and some Brie, to send him off in style.
I’d like to think he changed things more than slightly, and left many marks behind.
Antony’s a hero I would have loved to meet.